Yes, yes, I know. Everyone says that, but what does it really mean? And notice that I used Mother not parent. Obviously I’m female and in most cases would be a “mother”. That’s what I know. But I suspect it is different for men – fathers. Although some changes have been taking place in sexual role identification, and some men are definitely more nurturing, I believe always showing up and being there has traditionally fallen to the Mother.
I just returned from a six week trip to visit my daughter in Florence, Italy. Nice, huh? Well it would have been nicer if it had been a more leisurely trip. My 32 year old daughter just moved to Florence to work for UNICEF, leaving her husband of one year in Bangkok to finish an assignment there before joining her. She had been having digestion issues, and before she took the new job, they had been trying to start a family.
All of a sudden, I get an IM with a picture of a pregnancy test that is positive. (To tell the truth, I wasn’t sure what it was a picture of, I thought it was some kind of funny paint brush. In my day, “the rabbit died.”) This is good news, right? Well yes except the digestion issues have continued and been diagnosed as gall bladder problems – she has attacks. Pregnancy is not a good time to have surgery, especially in your lower abdomen. So they start her on a stringent diet to prevent another episode. It doesn’t work.
She is taken by ambulance late at night to the hospital. Knowing very little Italian they tell her that the gall bladder is about to errupt and they must perform surgery. She explains that she is pregnant – gravadanza is one word she knows in Italian. They take every precaution and remove a gall stone nearly the size of an egg and her gall bladder using an ectopotapic technique that works through her belly button.
I was planning to visit her the next month, but someone has to be there to assist her after she leaves the hospital. Her husband is traveling in Southeast Asia, and she wants her mommy. I quickly change my flights and throw things in bags and fly from Albuquerque to Dallas – Dallas to Rome – train to Florence. Thank god, I’m met at the train station by an executive from her job who takes me to her in the hospital. (Thank you, Noboko).
I arrive just in time to help her check out and we take a cab to her apartment – the one where she has lived for less than one week. I begin my crash course in getting around central Florence and buying groceries and medicine. Talk about on the job training. My Italian is non existant; fortunately I speak fluent mime and the Italians will meet you half way. I found myself making clucking sounds in the grocery store when I wanted chicken.)
She is now well into her 2nd trimester. Ultra sounds indicate that the fetus is fine. She has recovered from the surgery and is back at work. I stayed on through my original departure and to go to the Rolling Stones Concert in Lucca, Italy – a long-planned event for my daughter, her mother-in-law and me. It was a bit much for all of us but we made it and Mick is still strutting.
I am not complaining; it is nice to be needed. As one gets older one is less crucial to the important things in life. It was nice to be her mommy again.
Now I just need to try to remember anything about the births of my children and their very early months. Nature has a way of turning it all into a blur. I would like to be helpful with my new grandchild.